The Threeway Augur
by Shotgunnova
Summary: Three strangers blow into Sand Rat Cellar on the stretch of the soured Zeklaus Desert, but there won't be three leaving.


**NOTE:** This isn't supposed to be a story with some superlative diction and flowery language. It's just a story I wrote in my downtime to amuse myself, and maybe pay a little homage to a certain film genre. It's still FFT, make no doubt, but it may be a bit un-romanticized compared to other sprawling epics (which this isn't).

Have at it.

* * *

The weeping willow sagged low in the unruly easterly breeze, curving into the sand-eaten timber of the building adjacent. It may have been bright once, but that was time out of mind for everyone now. The only visitors were the sun, the moon, the sand, and the dry, dim palette of the desert, which seeped the color out of the structure and turned it to dust. This was no honorable structure; this was no honorable land. 

To many, this was known as the Sand Rat Cellar, a barren landmark in the stretch of Zeklaus sands. Why there was a structure there wasn't known, but anyone could speculate on why no one was livin' there now. Infertile, dry, useless earth for miles and miles, a land of nothing that only takes and takes until it's made you a part of it.

Nonsense tales of gold and treasure came from that area, mostly as a way of nomadic bandits luring foolish dullards to their eventual death. They evaporated in the noonday swelter and out of history, and the robbers blew away on the breeze...so went the travel life. And the Cellar bore witness to it all.

------

There were no survivors this time.

Bent out of shape and dead where they fell, this pack of marauders lay restless on the wooden flooring. Six in all, all face-down. The stench was a terrible feat, and the tiny drifts of sand that had accumulated in the past days hadn't the strength to cover it. They would in time, though.

A man stood in the doorway, quietly putting his ancient pistol away. There was no luster on its make, and the man's clothes were roughened leather, earthen-hued and not without a few holes. A wide-brimmed hat of similar color adorned hishead, making a bit of shade over a face hardened by a few days of desert travel. A man without a hat looked up at him, soulless eyes deflated and detereorated. The corpses weren't going to start smelling like cinnamon; he didn't have time to gawk.

He entered and stepped over the first in a lengthy stride. Two bulletholes in the back had done this one in, and had fed the timber below enough to redden it. As he actually took the time to inspect the damage, it appeared they all had bulletholes. Who kind of a man uses guns nowadays, the stranger wondered humorously, though he didn't stop digging in the nearest man's pockets. A few pieces of lint and a knife were the only rewards; he'd been cleaned out already.

"Nice shootin'."

The stranger whirled around, looking for a face to put on the calm baritone voice. The wood creaked under the strain of the bodies, but that was all. The holster hissed as the pistol was out again after a moment of rest, pointing through every window and hole. Nothing.

And then a whisper of smoke blew in from the west before being scooped up in the network of wind currents. A cigarette peeked around the corner and the stranger's gun acted on its own. The bullet ate it in midair.

"Phantoms don't smoke."

A chuckle. From the northern door, a man dressed in the same ranger's garb introduced himself into view, another cigarette already visible in his mouth. He pinched it hard and took it out of his mouth, offering it to the man a few yards away. A trick? Could be.

"I said phantoms don't smoke."

The man chuckled again, almost mockingly.

"You're a phantom, too...?"

The first stranger lowered his gun a bit, his eyes transfixed on the newcomer. Or had he been here the whole time? He wasn't sure, and didn't know how sure he wanted to be on the matter. If he didn't kill on sight, there must be a reason. "I certainly look it. Not as worse off as these guys"--he gestured to the unlucky six--"but I make do."

At once, the newcomer had his own gun out and aimed at the man. Apparently talking slowed the other senses. "So, you're number seven, hmm? Fortune smiles upon you and all of that?" He flashed a smile as wide as his hat, though he didn't seem like he meant it as a comfort. Handling his pistol seemed easy, too--it hadn't moved an inch. Kind of like some other people he could see.

"I just got here. I think you know that."

"That I do, that I do. You're kind of clumsy on land, walkin' across the desert and such. Sort of like...sort of like--"

"A fish right?" Man, did his trigger finger ever ache. Two men meeting in a room full of death, chatting about fated occurance. If there was a way to jinx a good streak, that'd be it.

"No, I was thinking more about...hmm, well a fish will work, too. Graceful in their element, pretty awkward out of it. Are you in your element, I wonder?"

"I am."

The two jerked to the west exit, not sure which way to point the guns in their hand. Indecision was a short path to walk, though--the guns soon found their way to the newcomer facing the sun. Youthful face, a bandanna over his mouth. His hair had a blonde glint that probably made him all the rage with the ladies, and all of that crap. His weapon of choice was also well-suited. It had six chambers for six shells. He looked around cautiously, as if he was outnumbered eight to one.

"Why are you two here?"

Cigarette in the north exit looked to Lucky Seven, who looked to Bandanna. Did they all have a good reason to be here? Cigarette spit out his namesake, giving a wry grin when the others' guns jerked an inch. "I'm here for treasure. You two?"

Lucky clammed up and moved a millimeter towards the window out of the building corner he had found himself in. If eyes were windows to the soul, then there were two more barrels looking straight at Bandanna. He was unnerving, and not just his presence either. Why would anyone make a three-way fight? Illogical, but maybe that youthful exuberance was really youthful ignorance on the inside.

Bandanna blew a wispy breath out from under his cloth, showing a field of three-day stubble. "I'm here because my ma's sick and I need to get this treasure to cure her." He sounded serious, but Lucky or his gun didn't buy it.

"Your heart's bleedin' all over me, Bandanna."

"Not more than these blokes' are, though." Cigarette had a chuckle of some sort, and both men looked back to him. He looked like he had grown a few feet then when he'd first appeared. Must be the air building up his coat like a sail. Lucky immediately thought of taking the wind out of both men's sails with a quick double-shot, but he didn't want a wound when he found a way out of this.

Lucky spoke up, his voice bolstered by a little anxiety for the plebeian with the bandanna. Right between the eyes, he thought, but he might just get one himself. "You want a bleedin' heart, Bandanna? I'll sure give ya one. You, too, Smoky, if you want one for the road. Course, the road'll be a short one." His grip tightened on his tiny machine, and he ached for it to be in its holster.

"Shore I want one, but it won't be from you. A man wiser than myself once said that walkin' away only works if you know there ain't a knife waiting for your back...or a bullet. I'll heat up my barrel if it comes down to that."

Like the Romandan plague, Bandanna got off a shot, pegging Cigarette in his wrist. "I'll heat up mine first," he exclaimed, jumping out of the doorway. Lucky just stood there, his gun wondering which man should get a killin' pledge. He turned to Cigarette, but he was gone through the doorway as well, obviously not wasting any time sitting around.

Footsteps echoed in the dry grass outside, but the colors were all the same. Who's what, Lucky wondered as his own coat whirled to life and he bounded out the nearest window. Landing in a quiet kneel, the only thing he saw moving was the weeping willow near him. It might have something to mourn over in a few seconds, especially if Bandanna poked his pretty little head around the bend.

A shot pinged an inch above Lucky's head, taking a section of wood and brick out of place from its brothers. The top of the wall collapsed, and two more shots were heard on the other side of the house. Keeping his head out of window-sight, Lucky stooped and ran, his free hand holding onto his hat. He didn't need another hole in it at this moment.

Footsteps licked the inside tile, and the gap in sound meant that one of his fellow gunmen had jumped up higher or stopped. Definitely not the latter. The northern doorway seemed vacant as Lucky tempted his life. Nothin' but a few birdcalls in the sand hills around the stead. Another bullet was slung from somewhere, digging into the earth a hand's width away from Lucky. Either he had earned his nickname of Cigarette's aim was now as loose as his tongue.

"Hey, Bandanna!" Cigarette shouted from somewhere, on the other side of the house again. "I've got a firm handshake with my left hand. I'll seal the deal with a lead slug, you bastard!" More footsteps on resilient ground, and Lucky snuck past the first northern window, putting his eye to a hole before getting to the second. Bandanna was inside, and the soft tinkle of casings meant he had expended all his firepower. Seize the opportunity, Lucky said to himself. After all, shooting someone in the back is just a way of not having to see their face twist in pain as a foreign object courses through 'em. Why not?

As if Bandanna's hand had become as heavy as the body beside him, Lucky fired a shot, hitting him square in the back. It tinked off like it had hit a wall, and it became apparently obvious right then that Bandanna wasn't wearing light, travellin' armor. He gave a raucous laugh as he picked himself up from the impact, and jumped out the window that Lucky had only a few minutes prior. The spring in his step was disheartening, especially since he dove like his clothes were made of feathers.

Time to reconsider the options. Cigarette had a useless arm, but since he had fired shots, he must have be a fairly balanced shooter. He might be easy to take out if the chance arose. Bandanna was fleet-footed and must've been a lancer in his previous life, 'cause he wasn't showing any signs of movement let downs. Lucky immediately regretted shooting him in a place other than the leg.

A gunshot was fired as soon as Lucky backtracked the north entrance, but it wasn't nearby. Apparently, all the action kept to the walls that were crumbly enough to break, which would be a fair supposition given that the entire southern wall broke on itself and tumbled to the ground a moment afterwards.

As the dust eased itself around the inside of the now-windless interior, a seventh body was seen on the ground, face-down with the other sojourners who had found a permanent home at the Cellar. The clothing was too similar, and it wasn't apparent which one was slain. The bricks covered both arms, and that would have been the main clue-in.

Fearing that the entire house would collapse, if given the chance, Lucky Seven rounded the house again, a careful tiptoe to match his trigger finger, which was now on the fringe. One down, one to go, and he wasn't going nowhere. Finally, a turn of a lagging coat-end flickered in the distance, also rounding a corner. Who was the hunted here?

A cry came from the nearby door and Lucky dove behind the wall immediately, missing the tiny hail of gunfire that was brought upon the spot he had previously occupied. He dove out of the way again, as the vertical shelter fell into a pile of building material.

"You've got to keep moving!" came the cry from the eastern window across the room, where Cigarette stood, gun rest on the sill like it weighed a thousand pounds. Or maybe it was just getting too hot from all the shots he'd fired. Either way, Lucky's gun reacted like it had justpassed bya magnet, blowing three holes in the eastern wall where Cigarette had ducked, just missing a new entrance into his cranium. Apparently, the burden was too much for the old place. It buckled and fell outwards, crashing against the willow and breaking around the trunk. The tree must be the strongest thing here, Lucky thought, as his hand started aching. Cigarette must be getting tired, too, after all that dexterous dodging.

"Hey, you're destroyin' the whole damn place," Cigarette said from behind the protected side of the willow. Rubble rolled at his feet, and he took a quick look-see as his fingers mindlessly reloaded his gun. "Careful where you're aiming!"

Lucky muttered under his breath at the pleasantry. So far, his shots had been conservative and astutely pulled off, but this was going on far enough. He would, in fact, need to be careful where he was aiming. Maybe add a little finality in as well. Rather than let this boil down to a stalemate, Lucky took a burst of luck and rolled to the right, hiding behind the thin part of the western wall between the door and the side of the building. Hopefully Cigarette's eyes had been wandering.

A minute passed and nothing but the weeds rustled. Time for action, Lucky decided. His gun snaked around the corner, its one eye looking for a target to maim. It met with the one eye of another steel contraption, this one belonging to Cigarette. Face to face, but neither daring to take their eyes off of the other's gun movements, they stood like listless wood carvings, ready to break out of the tedium at a moment's notice.

"So who's the quarry here?" Cigarette spoke in a gritty murmur, obviously as fed up with the cat-and-mouse game that had been played as ol' Lucky Seven. Lucky kept his vision fixed.

"You're already playing the part of the wounded animal." The trigger shook of its own volition, it seemed, ready to fire down the other man's barrel if needs be. Just as long as that shot was gotten off first. Lucky felt it glow in his hands, the enticing warmth, and he was sure Cigarette was experiencing the same thing, some how. Fatigue or tension, was it? The man who deliberated was going to die first.

"Ha, ha...I would feel slighted if I died now."

"What're you seekin', Smoky?" They were both perspiring, but that feeling seem distant when death was just a mechanism away. It didn't appear that they would both be parting their separate ways after this.

"Nothing, really. You have a reason to come out here?"

"I did, but I reckon it's not as important as walking out of here."

Cigarette laughed and cocked his gun, still avoiding eye contact. "You think you'll be walking out of here? Bandanna thought the same thing, too...and, well...his legs probably feel a little heavier than he'd imagined now, don't they?" There was that sense of humor in the face of danger again. Probably the only way he could downplay the situation, Lucky guessed. Then again...wait. Why was he analyzing any of this?

The weeping willow swayed as a gale upturned more dust and grit. The overhanging branches lurched towards the two gunfighters, begging for the fight to stop. Cigarette's hat tipped frontwards on its brim and lifted itself off over his eyes. Lucky wasted no time, and his fingers didn't either. The bullet struck Cigarette in the throat right through the top of the hat, blowing him backwards with a wall of inertia.

Another wound intact, he raised his gun to fire, but dropped it instead as he spit up a glob of purple-black blood. There would be no third wind today. Lucky looked down to his foe's still-lit cigarette, half burnt on a brick. Saving his last gentlemanly gesture for death, Seven stuck it in the mouth of his dying foe. One inhalation was all it took before Bandanna's head rolled to the side, the smoke just dripping out of his mouth on its own gray wings. A little pile of sand had even inched against him, spurred by windward hands. The desert had already started encroaching.

With a sandstorm on the rise, it was now for the real business. Lucky moved swiftly to the first six dead ones, jumping over a pile of primeval bricks. He slowly overturned each onto his back, grimacing at their wounds and thanking his stars that he didn't have any himself. Residually, he flipped the last body over and laughed--not out of happiness, but for the burden he could set down now. "Besrodio, thank god you're not 'ere."

And that was enough reason to go. There was no treasure for him save his own life and the one of another, and perhaps that was the reason he was able to haul up and go. A thrush warbled from its nest in the nearby tree, the only thing upright besides the stranger walking back to where he'd come. He was Lucky Nine now, and that was just fine with him.


End file.
